


Aftermath

by whatagoodboy



Category: Glee
Genre: AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-04-11
Updated: 2014-01-24
Packaged: 2017-11-03 11:18:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/380813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whatagoodboy/pseuds/whatagoodboy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kurt and Blaine live lives vastly different from the ones they imagined they would while in high school. They are both thirty years old, and learning how to pick up the pieces of shattered existences. (AKA--Wasn't Rehab a hoot?!)</p><p>New York. City of Dreams. Be careful what you wish for...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Have You Lost Your Way?

**Author's Note:**

> AU. Kurt and Blaine begin this tale as...well, you'll see. In this story, they didn't date in high school--Blaine never attended McKinley, and both are unaware that they'd competed against each other in show choir competitions.
> 
> This chapter is short--the next ones will be much longer. Trigger Warnings for: Drug/Alcohol Use, Sexual Assault, Dubious Consent Sexual Interaction, Depression/Anxiety, aaaaaaaaaaaaaaand Overdose.
> 
> I'm not planning to use deeply graphic imagery for some of the above, but it is important to be aware that those elements will be popping up. A bit now--and more in future installments.
> 
> Title (and some story ideas) inspired by Adam Lambert's Aftermath.

Wake up. Gather something vaguely clean and not offensive-smelling off of the pile in the dilapidated wooden chair by the bed to wear. Stand underneath a sad stream of lukewarm water in a shower stall with water pressure so low, it's quite a crime to actually call it a "shower". Wipe a clear spot into the steamed up mirror. Shave. Brush teeth. Lather, rinse, repeat.

This is the pattern Blaine Anderson has fallen into. It's rote, mechanical, and if he could describe his days using one word; he'd pick grey. Morning. Afternoon. Evening. Blah, blah, blah. Same. Grey. He's not entirely sure when this fog settled in, he just knows that it has. Perhaps it crept in through a slightly cracked open window--drifting down along the bricks of his apartment building silently? Maybe it arrived while he'd been sleeping, oblivious to the world? Whatever the method if its arrival--the grey doesn't seem to have any intention of leaving him alone any time soon.

He muses about the drab, sameness of his days as he rides an Uptown Bus headed to work. The sky is clouded, the temperature cold--and Blaine's breath steams up the scratched window he's leaned against. _Textbook March_ , he thinks. Manhattan bustles with frenetic energy like it always does--unconcerned with trivial matters like chill, traffic, or Blaine's emotional state.

Smiling to himself briefly--startled to feel his lips twitch upward, Blaine imagines the City as an actual person looking him in the face. _A take-no-shit lesbian bartender, maybe? Yeah. Named Ro. (Short for Roberta.) She'd be pierced and menacing--but with a secret soft center. Ro would make you work damned hard to crack her exterior, but when you did, she'd protect you with her life._

_Ro wouldn't listen to him bitch and moan about how everything was so...bleak. She'd pour him a beer, whack him upside his head, and tell him to get his curly head out of his ass...._

Unfortunately, he couldn't actually just stroll into that imaginary bar and find Ro waiting for him. Couldn't stroll into _any_ bar safely now, memories of charcoal grit at the corners of his mouth, sharp tube rubbing his throat--horrible memories both, but not as bad as the image of his mother's eyes he'd seen when he woke up. They'd been red-rimmed, puffy, and Blaine was certain he'd never seen that particular expression in them. Disappointment? Fury? Resignation?

He'd ended up deciding that it was probably a combination of all three.

Blaine never set out to become an alcoholic, drug addict. Really, though--who does? He'd always thought he was so much more smart--better able to handle himself. Life has ground him down, made him far less likely to be surprised by anything anymore. But the morning he'd realised that he'd fallen so far into himself, that he didn't even recognise his own face in a mirror--shook him to his core.

When he lets himself think about it, which is not often--Blaine calls it The Dark. The whole bleary, blurred, half-a-year he'd spent crawling up out of a chasm of...nothingness. He'd entered the rehab program willingly--all of his fight drained away. The promise of a clean, drug and alcohol-free life not even enticing to him at the time. Blaine had just wanted to be...away. Not responsible for anything. No friends. No lovers. No managers. No claims to anything that reminded him of his jumbled life and fucking exploded shell of a person he'd become.

A loud honk beside the bus startles him--ripping him out of his reverie. Blaine's relieved, truth be told--trips down "hey, remember rehab" lane not really fun. He's putting himself together. Agonising piece by painful piece. The grey? Is actually a phenomenal improvement over the Dark. It's boring, tedious, and not tinged with much excitement--but at least Blaine can function.

With a clang and an abrupt, lurching, motion--the bus stops at Broadway and 14th. Blaine's stop. He heaves himself up and out of the blue moulded seat, and patiently waits his turn behind the other travellers waiting to disembark. Rain starts to fall--the large windshield wipers on the dashboard of the bus churn back and forth--and for a moment, Blaine wants nothing more than to stand there, watching the wide arcs sweep away the angry droplets. But? Work beckons.

Eight hours of mumbled, "How can I help you?" and "Would you like a bag?" the only task on his agenda. With a sigh, and tight grip around the strap of his messenger bag, Blaine clomps down the steel steps, and into the fray of Manhattan's chaos. There's still a part of him, deep-down that thrills a bit at this. Finding his way into the ebb and flow of hundreds of bodies moving all around him--claiming his space. The city's not brought him joy in a long while--but the tickle of it still burns quietly in the back of his mind, in his heart.

Dodging a gaggle of chattering schoolgirls, Blaine leans up against a concrete wall and wonders if he can scrabble together enough change to stop at Starbucks for a coffee this morning. _Yeah, B--remember the time when you were a famous fucking rockstar? Coulda bought yourself a goddamn Starbucks, but, whoooo, good going there, brother--now you're slinging books for a living, your apartment is a complete shitshow, and you may or may not have two bucks clinking around in your bag..._

Shaking his head, as if doing so will actually mute the berating voice up there--Blaine reaches into a zippered compartment, and begins to feel around for metal bits. Biting his tongue, concentrating deeply, he gives a small "ha!" of triumph when he counts his bounty. $2.47. Perfect. Enough for a Venti Coffee. Deciding to take this as a victory, rather than a sort of sad statement of his current financial situation, Blaine quickly crosses the street, and pulls open the heavy glass door of the coffee shop.

The line is long--but he's a seasoned New Yorker now--he's used to it. Mourning the loss of his iPhone--completely losing his shit and nearly drinking himself to death had put a pretty large damper on his "for cool gadgets" budget--so he settles in for a wait without electronic distraction.

He sweeps his gaze around the large room--typical images of Starbuckian inhabitants greet him. People with eyes glazed and glued to glowing laptop screens, heavily lipsticked women talking animatedly on cell phones--skinny vanilla lattés in hand--the usual weird dance movements of people waiting to put condiments in their drinks. He blinks once, twice...three times, when he spies a particular man standing by the pastry case with a Sharpie in his hand, wearing a slightly askew green Starbucks apron. Blaine can see his lips moving, but isn't close enough to the head of the line to hear him yet.

He'd know that face anywhere. Those eyes. The man knows him. Knows so many of his fucking stories. Not the ones he'd spun to be entertaining--on camera, or at smokey bars, trying to be witty and suave. No. The ones he barely even wanted to admit to himself--never mind revealing them to another soul.

Kurt.

Kurt Hummel.


	2. Living In The Shadows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kurt's risen to great heights, and fallen far to personal lows. Being a Barista at Starbucks was certainly NOT on his to-do list, once upon a time...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is another pretty brief chapter--the next is substantially longer.

_"Jesus, shut up...shut up...shut up about your cup discount--I'll give you five dollars AND a free coffee to leave me alone!"_ Kurt rants to himself as he purses his lips together in frustration, and gamely attempts to appease the irate customer in front of him. "Ma'am, okay--so I'll do it for you this time, normally we don't..."

"I DON'T CARE WHAT YOU NORMALLY DO! DO IT ANYWAY. JESUS CHRIST, DOES THIS COMPANY ONLY HIRE MORONS? MORONS! HOW HARD CAN IT BE?" yells the patron--clearly not very pleased.

Kurt simply sighs, presses a few buttons on his register, and hands the woman her sales receipt without any comment. He NEEDS this job. As much as he's loathe to admit it--Kurt Hummel lets people walk all over him for the sake of making rent.

 Starbucks was the first place that would take him. The day he formally interviewed for the job, (" _Position"? It's an eight dollar an hour McJob."_ snarked his internal voice--the Bastard.) he'd shown up--freshly showered, wearing something semi-clean and pressed, resumé in hand. As he entered the bustling store-he took notice of debris littering the floor. Discarded drink sleeves, crumpled napkins, empty Splenda packets fluttering with each puff of air coming in with the draft of the constant opening and closing of the door.

 _This place looks as tired as I feel,_ he thought. Kurt hadn't had long to dwell on the idea--a fresh-faced and beaming young man approached him right away.

"Kurt?", asked the man, seeming bouncier with every second that passed, "I'm Joey, one of the managers here at our little spot." He extended his hand to shake Kurt's with a dramatic thrust.

Kurt nodded, put on his best, "why, yes...I'd ADORE working here, thanks!" look, and shook Joey's hand vigorously. Joey ushered them both to a small, vacant table somewhat out of the way of the swirling chaos and noise filling the room. As Joey flipped through the pages of his resumé, Kurt did his best to keep his expression neutral--hoping it was clear and vaguely hopeful, and prepared himself for the questions he was fairly sure would follow.

"Well, Kurt...you have a rather...extensive, and might I add--impressive, resumé here." Joey noted, eyes still on the page in front of him.

 _"Oh, shit. Here it comes",_ Kurt thought. Unsure if that might have been his cue to pipe in, he thought better of it--and remained silent. With an unsettling flick of his wrist, Joey clapped the papers together, and looked at Kurt.

"So, what brings YOU to Starbucks, Kurt? What about our company interests you?' he inquired perkily.

 _"He is not really serious, is he? I...well, money is helpful, I've learned. I've always dreamed of wearing a polyester apron daily? Coffee makes me able to NOT kill people?...oh, no--he IS serious."_ Kurt tried earnestly to stop the monologue running in his head, worked out a response he _hoped_ sounded sincere.

"Well, Joey...I've had a bit of a rough time of things lately, and am looking for a great team environment to ease my way into. As you can see, I've got some experience in retail positions, and I work well with..."

Joey cut him off. "Uh, well...Kurt? It says here that you've worked in clothing design and costuming for various theatrical companies and design houses. How, exactly, do you think that translates into retail experience?", his demeanor suddenly hard-edged, and infinitely less bubbly.

Kurt sighed, too tired to continue playing earnest, job-seeker. "Look, Joey? May I speak frankly?" he wondered.

Joey nodded, his face unreadable, "Yes, please."

"I haven't worked in anything retailesque in years. I was great at my college's bookshop, I manned a little coffee cart outside our Arts Center for a while--learned how to make a mean cappuccino. Perhaps surprisingly--I know my way around a motor and other car-related things, my father owned an Auto Repair shop. I'm not afraid to work my ass off, dirt washes away with a good scrubbing...

See,I've been in a business for the last almost decade that is glamourous, stressful, crazy...I am, er, _was_ , really good at what I did. The problem was-I got a little lost. Derailed. I got wrapped up in a world that can be amazing, but that can also drag you under and drown you if you're not careful. 

My life is in this weird place. For the first time in my adult life, I have absolutely no idea what I'm doing--where I belong, or how I ended up where I am. Ignore my facts on paper? I'll show up daily--on time. I'm clean, I play fairly well with others, I can make change, and if I didn't have coffee on an almost constant basis--I would die." Finishing his honest plea with a soft sigh, Kurt simply looked Joey in the eye.

The man just sat, his gaze fixed on him, unblinking, for a seemingly endless minute. Huffing out a soft sigh of his own, he swallowed thickly before responding. "Are you in any sort of...trouble? I can't ask you what kind outright--but if you can read between the lines, yeah?"

Kurt emphatically shook his head, "No. No, not any sort of trouble that requires monitoring by court systems. Clean record. I'm...in a program. I'm not going to tell you exactly which one, but maybe you can do a little between the lines reading of your own? I don't really care to talk about that much, but...I WILL if it means that I'll maybe be able to be employed. Pay my bills, all of that?"

Joey tilted his head, looking for all the world like a puppy sussing out a particularly confusing situation. "Okay. Kurt, here's the deal--I've hired ten people in ten days, and have already had six of them not show up for their first shifts. It's not easy, there's multitasking challenges constantly--and it never feels calm in here. I love this job...mostly. You seem like the kind of guy who can appreciate a lack of sugar coating--I'm offering you a position. I'm more than a little worried about the idea--but I like your honesty. You sure you want in?" he asked.

"Joey? I need a chance. I've screwed up so much in the last year, I have to have something that I can NOT screw up. A paycheck would be nice, but, yeah, I'd like in." Kurt admitted.

And like that? He'd gotten another firm handshake, a lopsided smile, and a directive to, "Be here tomorrow. Early. Six."

#

 

Lately, Kurt never wants to leave his bed. If he could--he'd set up a small refrigerator directly next to it, and have a chamberpot at the ready underneath. As a child, he'd loved gathering as many blankets, pillows, and quilts on top of himself as he could. Many rainy days, he'd burrowed into the huge piles, feeling the air grow warmer and warmer around himself while he huddled underneath--breathing softly, talking to his stuffed animal friends.

At thirty, he's found himself back in a place where humid air, shadowy filtered light, and the idea of stuffed animals as his only friends--comforting.

He'd grown up to be a man with many acquaintances, a person who commanded respect. Kurt had worked so damned hard to be heard, to be appreciated. It literally makes his brain freeze, thoughts stuttering to a standstill whenever he tries to pinpoint his fall. That's what he thinks of it as, _My Fall._

Scrubbing a hand wearily over his face, Kurt flings his fortress of covers off, and forces himself out of bed. Looking around his small room, he still can't quite believe that the vista which greets him has become his reality. Sparse furnishings...mismatched items. Bookshelves rescued from the side of the road, a dresser missing a knob--left behind by the last occupant of the space.

Reality. A thing which imbues Kurt with just enough energy to walk down the hallway, towel clutched to his chest like a terrycloth lifeline, and into the cramped bathroom to shower. As he shuffles into the room, and kicks the door closed softly with the heel of his foot--he stops short of walking right onto a sharp, plastic, toy dinosaur. 

 _Damn it, Lauren...I think your kid sheds toys behind himself as he walks,_ he thinks grumpily. It's not like Kurt doesn't love children--he does, but he hadn't banked on his new roommate being a single mother with a precocious kid when he'd circled a "Roommate Wanted" ad a few months back. The only thing that had screamed at him from the black and white print had been SOBER ROOMMATE SAUGHT. He'd chuckled to himself then, as he'd sipped the coffee he'd scrounged up enough money to buy so he wouldn't feel guilty for taking up a table for hours at Barnes and Noble.

The reason for the laughter? He met the criteria for sobriety. Kurt Hummel--the headstrong, brave, kid who escaped Ohio, and made a name and a life for himself in the "Big Bad City", had fallen so far out of kilter and off-track that drink and drugs and anonymous sex had ripped him so deeply at the seams. He'd lost his job, his apartment, his friends--but most hurtful? The prideful glint in his father's eyes. Burt was still there for him-yes, but his honest, green eyes couldn't disguise a new, more hardened look when he glanced Kurt's way.

Sobriety. Well, at least he had that to hang on to. A new job. A system clean of mind-altering substances. It wasn't much-but it was a new start. 

Rushing through his shower, Kurt mentally laid out his plans for the day. He expected the list to be long, but in the end? It was pretty simple: Show up. Show up at Starbucks and try not to run out the door screaming within an hour. Smile. (Or, try really hard to anyway). Work until it's time to clock out. Go home. Attempt to interact with Lauren and Caleb. Sleep.

 

Lather, rinse, repeat. Do it until _something, anything_ resembling a new life starts to take form.

 

This, the thirty-fifth day of his employ by Starbucks Coffee Company, (not that Kurt is in any way counting, or anything.) runs the same way it has since the beginning. His shower, dressing, and six block walk to the store passed in a blur--and Kurt hasn't had a solitary moment to stop moving. Until 8:43am on the dot. A slight, bespectacled, customer on line causes him to gasp. Gasp and freeze in his tracks. Clenching his jaw, unable to look away from the man ten feet away--Kurt stares. Curly hair, tamed a bit more than usual--plain, black, wool peacoat, faded blue jeans not standing out particularly. It's the eyes. 

Deep hazel, knowing. Blaine Anderson. Kurt's looked into the eyes of hundreds, _thousands,_ of other people before. This pair is seared into his memory--his skin.

The person, holding his head at a slight tilt--gazing at Kurt in open wonder? Knows Kurt's secrets--his deepest shames, most scarred and wounded hidden bits. Kurt isn't sure if he adores him with every fibre of his being--or if he hates him in equal measure.

Blaine. Light, dark, truth, fear, parts of Kurt himself mirrored back behind those wire-rimmed glasses. And, he's next in line.

 

 


	3. The Messes That You've Made

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blaine and Kurt meet. Nope, it's not a momentous, or even particularly thrilling first meeting--but, it's a start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hullo! Friendly neighbourhood trigger warnings for: hospital settings, drug/alcohol rehab, brief allusions to drug/alcohol use, hospital food, in this chapter.

Edging into consciousness, Blaine squints and shakes his head side to side slowly.  _The light. God damn it--the light is too bright_ , he thinks. He smells an an odour he hasn't been exposed to in ages-Pine-Sol?  _Smells like Grandma's, why am I at Grandma Roses'?_

 

"Blaine?"

 

He hears his name, but can't make his brain and mouth work in tandem and remains mute.

 

"Mr. Anderson? Hey, you're waking up--stay with us. Blaine!" the voice pleads, tone and volume rising at the end of the sentence.

 

The sharp blast of sound resounds in his ears, startling him out of his fog.

 

"Wha?....I'm here. What?" he says.

 

Blaine's eyelids feel weighted, and raising them up enough to see clearly, feels like a monumental task. He focuses on trying to keep alert. There's a young woman leaning over the bed he's in, and he finds his sight drawn to the stethoscope dangling around her neck. It's swaying back and forth--light glinting off of the chestpiece. 

 

"Blaine, I'm Doctor Stern. Do you have any idea where you are right now?" she asks.

 

He's fully aware that this  _shouldn't_ be a difficult question for him to answer, but as he struggles to respond, Blaine realizes that it really sort of is.

 

"Aren't I still at the hospital?" he wonders. The last thing he remembers vividly before oblivion struck was watching his mother's face crumpled in tears as he felt his eyes slip closed. There was a vague rumbling outside the window near his head--rainfall, maybe? There was that too--but that's all he's got.

 

"Well, you are in a hospital---of sorts. You've been transferred from the emergency department of Saint Luke's/Roosevelt Hospital, and you're now in a different building. You're in the detox unit--it's been almost a day since you arrived." Dr Stern informs him.

 

She pauses, letting her offered information sink in. Blaine's bleary mind hones in on the "detox" part.  _Oh. Charcoal...police...restraints..._ his internal voice offers.

 

Groaning slightly, and raising his head off of the plastic-covered hospital pillow cradling his head, Blaine croaks, "It's...it's been a day already? How...why can't I...?"

 

The doctor cuts him off, gently. "You've been under pretty heavy sedation, Blaine. We began to wean you off of all the medicines you were on to keep you sleeping. You're still on a number of meds which are not intended to sedate you necessarily--but to keep you on an even keel as the drugs and alcohol leave your system." 

 

As she explains, she straightens her back, standing up fully and scribbling some notes on a metal clipboard. Blaine realises suddenly, that Dr. Stern must have been checking his vital signs as she tried to rouse him into full wakefulness.

 

It's a bit alarming to know that someone's been pretty much touching him wherever they pleased while he was down for the count--but with a small, painful, pang--Blaine knows that if he's honest? At least the doctor had good, pure, intentions--unlike some of the skeevy guys he has woken up next to after blurry, greyed-out, nights.

 

Blaine swallows deeply, willing words to come. None do. Instead, he is shocked to find hot, stinging, tears prickling at the corners of his eyes. Suddenly, everything seems like too much. Too much stimulation, too much information. Being awake is terrifying. For a searing moment Blaine wills the world to swallow him up again.  _Take me away, please...please...I just don't want to be here. I can't. I..._ his thoughts race. He doesn't want to cry--doesn't want to feel. 

 

The memory of his mother's anguished face slams into his head, the image playing itself in stark clarity behind his tightly closed eyes. He wants it gone--but it refuses to dim. Over and over, he sees her honey-brown eyes--so much like his own--filling with tears, splashing drops falling from her lashes.

 

"Blaine...Blaine, baby....why? Where are you Blaine? I want you back--this isn't you. You're not my boy. The boy I know would NEVER give up--ever. Blaine, please....please..talk to me?" Maricris Anderson had begged.

 

_No. Stay. Stop. Stop running. Just stand still. Breathe. Wake up. All you need to do is wake up and breathe. See what comes next,_ a quiet voice whispers in his ear. With a start, Blaine opens his mouth to speak, and lets the tears fall.

 

"Is my Mom here? Cooper?" he asks, his voice shaking.

 

Dr. Stern moves away from his bedside, and Blaine sees his tiny Mom rush toward him from a corner of the room. Gently, she caresses his cheek--wiping at the impossible stream of anguished tears coursing down his face. He feels her scent, rather than only detecting it with his nose. It envelops him--hits him like a direct punch to the solar plexus. Lilacs, sandalwood,  _safety and home._

 

"Oh, Ma---I, I don't know...I'm so so-" he sobs into her outstretched hands.

 

"Shhhhhh, nonoy..." Maricris whispers, "It will be alright. Shhhhhh, baby." 

 

###################### 

 

 

 

Three days later, and Blaine is a little bit more sure that things might actually be alright. It's been 72 hours of shaking, vomiting, creepy-crawlies, and bad dreams. He's actually managed to start keeping down solids, so  _whooo!, that's a plus,_ he thinks to himself wryly as he drags himself out of his small room, and into the hallway---ready to join what he's been informed is, "the rest of the gang", in the cafeteria for breakfast.

 

Today is the first day he'd woken up on his own, without an orderly shaking him gently, or a Nurse tapping a clipboard against his bed frame.  _Hey, it's the little things, I guess,_ he'd observed, as he pulled on some nondescript sweatpants and a t-shirt picked from a neat pile on top of the chipboard dresser in his room. 

 

The mirror in Blaine's tiny, en suite bathroom had reflected back a pretty sad sight. His hair? Blaine felt that "insane guy on the F-Train" probably described it well. As he brushed his teeth, he half-heartedly looked around for some mouthwash. Finding none, it slowly dawned on him that Listerine was pretty much composed of pure alcohol--and had probably been removed in case he entertained any idea of drinking it.

 

_As if I'd drink fucking Listerine. I'd never be that desperate to be high_ , he ranted to himself--not willing to acknowledge that if he'd been pushed enough--all bets would have been off on that pronouncement.

 

Putting on his most fake rock star smile, he gave himself a "thumbs up" aimed at the mirror, watched his expression return to one of slight terror--and began journeying down a nondescript corridor. Looking for all the world like every hallway in every hospital he's ever been in--Blaine lets the half-nauseating, half-enticing smells of cafeteria food guide his way.

 

As he gets closer to where this mystical land of "the rest of the gang" must be, sounds of clinking plates and rumbled conversations reach his ears. Leaning against a yellow-tiled wall, he takes a moment to steady himself before venturing into the large room.

 

Blaine hasn't always been afraid. He's fronted a world-famous rock band--sung for the President, helped countdown the New Year on CNN, performed during the World Series...all things which required a certain amount of fearlessness and bravery. Somewhere along the way, the fear stole in. 

 

It robbed him of his friends, his career, his dignity, and his basic ideas of who he was. He hasn't known who he is for at least a year now--and by walking into a bustling room full of strangers, he's about to find out. 

 

And at this precise moment? Blaine is certain he's never been more terrified in his life.

 

"Excuse me? Um, are you going to go in....or?" inquires a soft voice directly behind him.

 

With a jump, Blaine figures out that he must be somehow blocking part of the entryway. There are two glass doors to choose from though, and he's just about to mention that to the person behind him, when a sweater clad arm reaches around him gently and pulls at the right hand door.

 

It doesn't open. 

 

"They keep this side locked for some reason. One way in, one way out...see?" 

 

Blaine feels like his tongue has inexplicably grown so large that it won't fit his mouth correctly. The soft voice belongs to a man, and, Blaine is no blushing, virginal, teenager--but  _jesus_ if he isn't the most stunning one he's ever laid eyes on. Blue eyes,  _no, green-blue, no, a kaleidoscope of colour_ ...wide and questioning, sweep over Blaine's face. 

 

"Hey? I'm hungry. Could you please move aside? Do you need help? Are you okay...." the guy asks.

 

_MOVE ASSHOLE! Work your legs...move, damn it!_ Blaine's mind shrieks at him.

 

"Oh! Yeah, I, uh...I'm new, and...." he trails off, feeling supremely defective.

 

"Oooookay. New guy? Not readily apparent or anything. I'm Kurt. I'm un-new. Well, compared to you, I guess. This food doesn't start off too delicious when it's new, so I'm going to get some before it's old. Let me know if you need anything." 

 

Kurt slides past Blaine, not really giving him much of a chance to actually move aside--apparently tired of politely waiting for normal amounts of personal space to open up.

 

As Kurt strides into the room, he calls back to Blaine, "I can't help you with caffeine though...brace yourself, new guy. It's all decaf--all the time here. What's your name?"

 

He stops walking for a pace or two, and waits, his head cocked backwards to listen for Blaine's answer. 

 

"Um...Blaine. I'm...Blaine. Thanks, Kurt." he calls, his voice raised, and cracking slightly.

 

Kurt laughs briefly, the sound of his voice barely audible over the noise levels in the room, "You're welcome Blaine. C'mon, food's getting cold...er."

 


	4. And So It Goes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blaine's family come for a visit--and Blaine's hopes for a new friend are dashed in a very surprising way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After a long break--I'm tackling this fic again. I've got the entire story--from beginning to end, in my head, the main challenge is to write it all down. For those of you who have bookmarked this fic, commented and stuck with it? A million thanks for your patience and kindness.

Staring into the palm of his hand, Blaine takes stock of the multicoloured pills nestled there. There’s a blue one, two green ones, and two reddish ones. He wonders briefly what each is for, and if any of them could possibly ease the buzzing ache in the very center of his head.

"Take the pills, Blaine." Cooper Anderson says softly.

Blaine stares a bit more. He’s just so tired of, well, everything really. He doesn’t want to move—he wants to lie down and pull the covers over his head. Taking pills seems like a Herculean effort. Cooper pushes a little paper cup in Blaine’s direction.

"Take the pills." his brother says for a second time.

Blaine doesn’t move—doesn’t even blink.

"Goddamn it, Blaine—take the fucking pills already!" Cooper shouts.

Maricris Anderson jumps out of the hard, plastic chair by the bed she’d been sitting in. “Stop yelling at your brother, Cooper. He’ll take the pills when he’s ready.” Moving over to Blaine, she takes his hand in hers and speaks softly, “Honey, let’s go. It’s time to take your medicine. Come on, I can help you.”

Blaine jerks his hand away. “I’m not four-years-old, Ma. Stop. I’ll do it, just give me a minute.”

From the middle of the room, Cooper mutters, “Stop acting like a child, and she’ll stop treating you like one.”

Tossing his head back, Blaine drops the pills into his mouth. Instantly, a bitter tang floods his tastebuds. Reaching over to grab the paper cup of water from Cooper, he motions for him to pass it over more quickly. It’s bad enough that he’s got to take so much medicine—the last thing he needs is to choke to death on it all.

_How screwed up would it be if I died right here, in rehab?_ Blaine thinks to himself.

"There." he says, "I took them. One for nausea, two for anxiety, and two for general craziness—I think.”

Sitting down on the edge of his bed, Blaine looks at his mother and brother. “Cooper? Why are you here? You don’t even want to be here. It’s not as if we’ve even talked for the last three years. Ever since I sang at the Inaugural Ball, you’ve been pissed and distant. I’ve tried to set up meetings with you so many times. Every holiday it’s been another excuse…”

"Oh, shut up, Blaine." Cooper interrupts, "Don’t make this about me—you’re the one who’s been too fucked up to be around when I am. You’ve been too drunk—high, I don’t know. Look where you’ve ended up."

"Cooper! Stop it, this isn’t the time." Blaine’s mother says sternly, "Blaine’s here to get better. We don’t have to talk about all of this now—we just need to help Blaine get better."

Cooper snorts, “Yeah, ‘cause it’s always about Blaine.”

Suddenly, a knock on the door to his room startles the three of them.

“Excuse me? Blaine? It’s time for group.” Kurt says, “I grabbed you a cup of coffee—last of the caffeine for the day.”

Blaine stands up, grateful for a reason to escape the tension of the room. “Thanks, Kurt. Ma? Cooper? This is Kurt—my only friend so far.”

Kurt walks into the room, shifts his cup of coffee to his left hand so he can shake hands with his right. “Pleased to meet you Cooper, Mrs. Anderson.”

Maricris clears her throat and says, “Nice to meet you, Kurt. It’s time to go I guess?”

Kurt nods. “Family hour is over, I’m afraid.”

_I’m so glad_ , Blaine thinks.

Blaine hugs his mother quickly and moves over to Cooper, hugging him awkwardly—patting Cooper’s back stiffly.

“I’ll see you soon, ok? Can we at least agree to try and get along? I’d really love to have my big brother back.” Blaine says softly into Cooper’s ear.

“I’ll try, kid. I’ll try.” Cooper responds.

Cooper gathers his coat from the bed. “Let’s get going, Mom” he says, motioning toward the door.

“Take good care, Blaine. I’ll see you in a few days.” Maricris whispers in Blaine’s ear. With a quick peck to his cheek, she follows Cooper down the hallway.

Kurt leans against the door jamb. “Friends? Are we friends already, Anderson? I’m not sure I’ve put you on my list yet.”

Blaine swallows, unsure how to answer Kurt. On one hand, he’s been so kind, bringing him coffee and showing him the ins and outs of the programs workings—on the other, he’s been snippy and distant.

“Um, yeah. I’d like to think we’re becoming friends.” Blaine says, settling on the safest response he can think of, other more direct answers feeling too confrontational.

_Why are you so bitchy? Why do you have to be cold and a little bit mean?_ Blaine wants to ask, but bites his tongue.

“Let’s go—we’re going to be late.” Kurt says, starting down the hallway. Blaine startles, and rushes to follow. The two men walk quickly toward a common room. Shabby, well-worn couches ring one wall, and hard, metal, folding chairs line another. In the middle of the room is a large table stacked with blue books.

People mill about, most clutching styrofoam cups of coffee. The sound of many different conversations hurts Blaine’s ears, and he silently wishes that he could be somewhere quieter.

A portly, balding, man clears his throat, “Okay, okay, everyone—let’s settle down. We’re going to get started.” he says, raising his voice to be heard over the din. “Come on, everyone pick a seat, let’s get going.”

Kurt and Blaine choose folding chairs next to each other while the rest of the people in the room vie for space and seats.

“I’m Don, and I’ll be facilitating this group tonight—Real Talk,” begins the leader of the group. “We’re here for honest, deep, discussions. I’ll be choosing people and asking them some questions about their reasons for being here. We’ve got some new faces, so we’ll start with them first.”

Blaine groans inwardly. _Super. I’m new. He’s going to pick me first, I know it_ , he thinks.

Surely enough, the man instantly turns toward Blaine.

“Hello, would you like to tell the group a little bit about yourself? Your name, and why you’re here perhaps?” he asks.

“Um, I’m Blaine. I’m here because I have a problem with alcohol?” Blaine says, hesitantly.

Kurt snorts quietly.

Before Blaine can process why Kurt would be laughing at him, Don speaks to him again.

“Blaine, do you have a problem with alcohol or are you an alcoholic?” Don asks.

_Didn’t I just say that_?, Blaine wonders to himself.

“What you said, I guess. I’m an alcoholic.” Blaine says.

Don continues, “You’re here because your life became unmanageable. You almost died, Blaine. You’re not here because you have anything resembling a little problem.”

_No shit, I know I almost died—the last days have been a nightmare, I know what happened_ , Blaine thought, feeling his cheeks warm and redden.

Kurt snorts quietly again. Blaine wants to turn to him and ask him what the hell his problem is, but Don is determined to keep him in the spotlight.

“You look angry, Blaine. Are you upset that I’m speaking so bluntly to you? It’s alright if you are—you can tell me. This is a safe place.” Don says, concern creasing his brows.

“I’m not upset, but it feels a little bit like you’re attacking me, I’m sorry” Blaine says, “I know I almost died though, I was there.”

People around the room shift nervously, and Blaine senses they are maybe on his side. A mousy, thin woman raises her hand.

“Yes, Lisa?” Don says.

“Blaine, I think Don is just trying to drive home how serious your problem must be in order for you to be here—I don’t think he’s attacking you.” Lisa says.

Kurt raises his hand, and Don calls on him. “Thank you, Lisa—that’s exactly what I was trying to do. Yes, Kurt?”

“Little Blaine doesn’t like to make waves, Don. He wants to tell you what you want to hear so you’ll leave him alone.” Kurt says, looking Blaine right in the eye.

Blaine can’t help himself. “What the fuck is your problem? Why are you saying that? You barely know me—you don’t know anything about me or my life.” he explodes.  
Kurt just smiles.

“I can read you, Blaine. I can read you from a mile away. You’re a people-pleaser. You say whatever keeps things smooth and drama-free. You change for people, like a chameleon—to be what and who they want you to be. I bet you’re a world class liar” he says.

Blaine stares at Kurt, his mouth hanging open.

“Kurt, that was not called for”, Don says, “Let’s not name-call. Kurt, we need to be constructive—not destructive. Blaine, swearing is not allowed in this room. We’ve established that you’re here for serious reasons, and you acknowledge that, so let’s move on to someone else.”

Blaine seethes with anger. He rises quickly and leaves the room. Kurt follows behind.

Turning on his heel, Blaine confronts Kurt.

“What the hell is your problem? Why’d you pretend to like me? Why were you nice to me if you thought I was such a piece of shit?” he asks.

Kurt is silent for a moment before he responds.

“I never said you were a piece of shit—I was just trying to be honest with you. How else are you going to get better?” he asks.

This time, Blaine snorts.

“Are you kidding me? Who died and made you the one true judge of me and how I am?. Why are you here, Kurt? It’s not for the food or the fine company. What’s your deal Kurt? Huh?” Blaine rants, moving closer and closer to Kurt.

“I lost myself. I looked into a mirror and couldn’t recognize who I was anymore. I did so many drugs that I became an entirely new person. He’s not a very nice guy, and he almost killed me. That’s why.” Kurt says, quietly.

Blaine blinks slowly as Kurt walks away.

 

 

 


End file.
